


Syrup Kiss and Lucky Numbers

by lechatnoir



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hannibal Kink, Kink Meme, M/M, hannibalkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt : <i>  Will’s the one who makes the first move, and Hannibal’s just been so desperate to be with Will that when they finally have sex for the first time he literally cannot stop telling Will that he loves him, and pressing kisses into his hair, and welling up because Will’s clinging to him and calling him Hannibal and for like .008 seconds they made eye contact and he just completely loses the ability to even. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Syrup Kiss and Lucky Numbers

i.

There’s something like a stuttering drum that drones on in his mind.  
It’s a steady rhythm of _boom doom boom doom_ that makes his eyes hurt and brain become something like static.

(It goes away when Hannibal’s nearby ) 

He thinks of storm clouds and monsoons, whirling and whirling and stag antlers piercing his chest.  
(It’s getting harder to breath)

Hannibal is bathed in shadows and the light flickers across his face, and there is something like gold leaves that lace themselves into his skin, something fragile and bones too hardened by the rain to care.

He is the monster in the fairytales, the hidden beast who sits and waits and preys upon you in the darkness.

(He smiles and greets Will ‘Good Morning’ instead, bringing him coffee to his home, decrypted and isolated save for the pack of dogs that watch his every move) 

ii.

He thinks that friendship is something that has no bounds, and when he is scolded and reprimanded about boundaries, he can only smile and nod.

(Smiles and nods because Will Graham is twisting his mind into something 

contorting and distorted, something breaking and 

 

twisting and

rotting away and utterly

breathing because he cannot take it – he can’t understand why or how, but

it is as if they 

are two twisted trees, entwined into one, jagged ends digging 

into soft flesh and it’s enough to have him dripping gold and

scrambling out

out

out )

iii.

They start their morning together – Will is painting the latest crime scene in his head and Hannibal listens, sketching idly in a moleskin that is worn and battered but still managed to be his, be refined and utterly perfect. 

It is burgundy colored walls and a question that shoots through him like an arrow – 

“Are you even listening , Hannibal?” 

He swallows and nods, but doesn’t move, because he can’t move.

 

He’s trapped in his own little world, of red fire walls and all the sirens and furies of hell dragging him through, with pomegranates laced in their hair and gold clad claws that rip through him and he doesn’t realize it when Will comes closer and looks at him, eyes curious and puzzled and simply _his_ and it doesn’t matter that he can’t focus, that the mask has disintegrated for once. 

Will touches his face gently – a small slap but to Hannibal it’s as if a siren song courses through him and he doesn’t realize it, when he leans in, eyes closed and a tired breath escapes his caged lungs, battered and cold. 

“You seem to be warm, Dr. Lecter”

“I’m fine Will, just fine.”

iv.

He doesn’t know how it happened, but it’s simply that Will won’t go away from his thoughts, no matter how many times he listens to Chopin, or Tchaikovsky.

It is as if he has gotten lost in the woods, and had stumbled upon a house of sweets and flesh, and he couldn’t stop himself from it, eating away with no restraint, blood dripping down glass teeth and it was alright.

(It was maddening) 

He thinks of how it would feel to kiss Will, boundaries be damned.

He wants to savor raspberry flavored syrup with blood mixed in because he may or may not hum with delight from the mere thought of it all.

(Little gasps and bite marks, tugging and pulling and licking and sucking) 

v.

Will visits him daily, sometimes he just visits to see how he’s doing, see what sketches he’s done, see what new recipes he came up with. 

He smiles and tells him to sit down on the armchair, and Will only smiles and moves closer instead, tugging gently on the lapels of his suit and pulling him close, lips gentle and firm and soft and he thinks if he were to die there, he would be a damned happy man.

(No no, not a man, a monster) 

“What was that for, Will?”

He’s greeted with only a smile and eyes that dance with mirth instead.

vi.

Love is something foreign, something odd and not tangible, not logical.

And yet it seizes him with a fury that he doesn’t understand why or how but it does, and he drowns in it like a hopeless man whose cards Fate has laughed at and tossed into a fire instead. 

It’s fevered kisses and the rain storming outside, silk sheets that wrap around them with ghost touches, kisses and moans and whimpers that fill up the room and he thinks that perhaps, this is far more beautiful than Chopin’s sonatas and arias.

Will is a force of his own, laughter bubbling over his lips and eyes that cloud over with lust and maybe even love.

He clings to Hannibal, clawing and trying to get close because they’re far too cold, far too numb and he wants to get out, wants to be on _fire_ instead, and maybe only Hannibal can fix that, because he _can_ fix it, distorted time or not and it’s something that Hannibal can’t get enough of, ravishing and claiming as his own because Will is a storm in his own right and he can’t get enough of him.

He presses kisses to his forehead, to his cheeks and his eyelids and mutters quietly about how wonderful he is because he truly truly is, the empathetic man and the man with no concept of empathy for it is something that has been stolen away from him and he can’t seem to get it back.

He looks and they meet eyes and he can only smile and kiss Will gently, softly, and whisper that he is the only one, the centerpiece of everything.

(All the lies and webs and poison traps, all of it was because of Will) 

(All the murders and victims) 

(All the lovely entrees and food for the dying dead ) 

(He cannot help but cry and laugh and be a monster hiding in a man’s meatsuit) 

He can’t take the whispers that Will pours into his ear and it’s breathy little whines of ‘Hannibal’ and ‘please’ and it’s enough to make him be more addicted to the man then he already is. 

They fuck and it’s a dance between them, smooth and rough and a storm but it’s their own tempo and their own little story woven in clasp hands and bite marks and kisses and little gasps as the rain rages outside. 

vii.

They say seven is a lucky number.

 

(Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you are under arrest)

He laughs as they strip him down, lock him away in a penitentiary and he makes himself comfortable, because his bones know that he won’t be leaving, not anytime soon.

He closes his eyes and thinks of golden stags and packs of dogs, and the smell of sandalwood and fish and coffee and he thinks of _Will_ and how beautiful he was, eyes molten and a mind that was a dinner for the gods.

(He had devoured him whole and savored each and every minute of it, every little movement, every little flush jerk and pant and moan that escaped Will Graham’s body and mouth ) 

They say seven is a lucky number.

(It’s been seven years since Will Graham has died. )

They say seven is a lucky number.

(There are seven devils in his head, that all have some sort of resemblance to the man whom he was utterly and hopelessly in love with.) 

They say seven is a lucky number.

(Will Graham never existed) 

 

_fin_


End file.
